The Aftermath
2nd moon, 279 AC.
The day was cold and grey when Hosteen Mudd, Jason Mallister, and Edric Fisher rode back into Hammerford. The fires from the bandit camp had burned brightly against the horizon as they departed, the last remnants of the Pemford Pretender's ill-fated rebellion smoldering into ash. The battle had been won, the enemy broken, yet none of them rode with the lightness of victory. The true fight, they all knew, was not over.
As they passed through the gates, Hosteen turned to one of his guards. "Take the prisoners to the dungeons. No one speaks to them until I say so. And send for Adden. I want him in my solar immediately."
The man nodded and hurried off.
Jason rode beside him, silent for a time before speaking. "And what of the pretender?"
"He'll talk," Hosteen said. "One way or another."
Jason scoffed. "A man like him—young, foolish—he'll break quickly."
Hosteen wasn't so sure. Desperate men clung to their pride like a drowning man to driftwood. The Pemford boy had built his life on the belief that he was someone important, that he was owed something. Stripping that from him would take care.
They dismounted in the courtyard, handing their horses off to the stablehands before making their way inside. The halls of Hammerford were dimly lit with flickering torches, the warmth of the great hearths barely reaching them after the chill of the ride.
As they stepped into Hosteen's solar, Adden was already waiting for them. He was a lean man, more scribe than warrior, yet there was a sharpness in his eyes that made it clear why Hosteen trusted him.
"My lord," Adden said, inclining his head. "You sent for me."
Hosteen motioned for him to take a seat. Jason and Edric did the same, settling in as Hosteen poured himself a cup of wine. He took a slow sip before speaking.
"I want you to write to Lord Commander Qorgyle," he said. "Inform him that we have prisoners—bandits, rebels. They are to be taken to the Wall."
Adden nodded, already reaching for parchment and quill. "How many?"
"Two dozen."
Jason exhaled through his nose. "That many? And what of the pretender?"
"He stays," Hosteen said.
Jason smirked. "Good."
Adden finished his writing quickly, sanded the ink, and rolled the parchment. "I'll have a rider take it at first light."
"Good," Hosteen said. "Now leave us."
Adden inclined his head and left without another word.
When the door closed, Hosteen turned to Edric. "Bring him in."
Edric rose and stepped out. A few minutes later, the door opened again, and the pretender was shoved inside.
His hands were bound, his face bruised from the battle. He looked smaller here, in the warm glow of the solar, his fine clothes torn and dirtied. Whatever pride he had left was a fragile thing, clinging to him as he straightened his back and lifted his chin.
"Sit," Hosteen ordered.
The pretender hesitated, but when Edric's hand tightened on his shoulder, he obeyed, sinking into the chair across from Hosteen.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Finally, Hosteen leaned forward. "You will talk."
The pretender said nothing.
Jason sighed. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way, boy."
Still, the pretender remained silent.
Hosteen studied him. "What did you mean by 'allies'? Who backed you?"
The pretender's jaw tightened. "No one."
Jason let out a sharp laugh. "No one? Those weapons you had, that steel—that wasn't from 'no one.'"
The young man's fingers twitched against his bonds. "You wouldn't understand."
Hosteen's eyes narrowed. "Try me."
Silence stretched again. Then, finally, the pretender exhaled sharply, as if deflating.
"Lord Frey," he muttered.
Jason's expression darkened. "What?"
"Lord Frey sent me," the pretender admitted, his voice thick with resentment. "He wanted House Mudd weakened. He told me to raid your lands, to kill your men if I could. Make Lord Hosteen look incompetent."
Jason scoffed. "And what did he promise you in return?"
The pretender's hands curled into fists. "Legitimacy. Power. A place." His lip curled. "He said if I did this, if I proved myself, he would support my claim."
Hosteen exchanged a glance with Jason. This confirmed what they had suspected—but it also meant that Walder Frey had been careful. He had left enough clues to lead back to him, but not enough to condemn him outright. A game of shadows, as always.
Jason leaned forward, his voice quiet but sharp. "Then why did you raid my lands?"
The pretender hesitated. Then, with a bitter smile, he said, "Because of you."
Jason frowned.
"You ordered my uncle killed," the pretender said, his voice raw with anger. "You had him killed like a dog."
Jason's expression was unreadable. "Your uncle was a traitor."
The pretender's laugh was hollow. "Is that what you tell yourself? That you did the right thing? That the Mallisters are always just and fair?" He shook his head. "You're no better than the rest of them."
Jason's fingers tapped against the table, slow and deliberate. "Your uncle betrayed his vows. He sided against the people his liege lord had him swore to protect."
The pretender met his gaze with open hatred. "And now you call me a pretender. But what are you? What is any lord but a man who took something and claimed it was his?"
Jason didn't respond.
Hosteen watched them both, then turned to Edric. "Take him back to the dungeons."
Edric nodded and hauled the young man to his feet. The pretender did not struggle, but his gaze never left Jason's.
As he was led from the room, Jason finally exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an invisible weight.
Hosteen poured himself another cup of wine. "Do you regret it?"
Jason looked at him, his jaw tight. "No."
Hosteen nodded. "Then don't let him get to you."
Jason scoffed, standing. "He's already lost. He just doesn't know it yet."
Hosteen swirled his wine, watching the fire flicker in the hearth. "Neither does Walder Frey."
And that, he knew, was the real problem.
After Lord Mallister had left Hosteens solar, the night was quiet save for the distant sounds of the keep settling into sleep—the occasional murmur of guards changing shifts, the creak of wooden beams adjusting to the cool night air. Yet, despite the stillness, Hosteen's mind was restless.
Before him lay two blank sheets of parchment, waiting to be filled. One for Lord Walder Frey. One for Lord Charlton. Each would serve a different purpose, yet both played into the same game. A game of power, of silent threats wrapped in polite words.
Hosteen dipped his quill into the inkwell and began the first letter.
To Lord Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing,
I write to inform you that the recent disturbances along our borders have been dealt with. The pretender and his bandits have been broken, and the roads are once again safe for travellers.
It is my hope that this resolution will be a permanent one, and that our Lands may in the future not be infested by such dangerous criminals who knows who they are going to go after next it could be anyone if they are to be believed.
I trust that you will find this news agreeable. Should anything else arise, I am certain we will find a way to resolve matters as we have before.
Should you have need of me, or the men of House Mudd don't hesitate to ask for help after all even a trident has more than one point.
Lord Hosteen Mudd, Lord of Hammerford and Oldstones
Hosteen sat back, scanning the letter. There was nothing overt, nothing that could be taken as a direct accusation—but the message was there. He knew. And Walder Frey, cunning as he was, would see it.
He set the letter aside to dry before moving on to the second.
To Lord Maynard Charlton,
The recent disturbances in our lands have raised certain questions—questions that I believe you and I would both benefit from discussing. In times such as these, misunderstandings can be costly, and I would much prefer clarity over uncertainty.
With that in mind, I invite you to meet at Seagard, where we may speak freely and without undue attention. Lord Jason Mallister has agreed to host the meeting on neutral ground, ensuring that no misgivings arise from our discussion.
I trust that a man of your wisdom will see the merit in this. I await your response.
Lord Hosteen Mudd
He signed the letter with a firm hand and set it aside to dry as well. This one was more delicate. Charlton had played his hand carefully, supplying weapons to the bandits while ensuring that no direct proof led back to him, well except the weapons themselves. This meeting would determine what kind of man he truly was—a cautious opportunist, or a true player in the great game.
As Hosteen sealed the letters with wax, the door to his solar creaked open. Jason Mallister stepped inside, his expression unreadable.
"You've made your decision, then?" Jason asked, nodding to the letters.
"I have," Hosteen said. He passed the letter addressed to Charlton across the table. "With your permission."
Jason took the parchment and read it, his sharp eyes scanning each word with care. When he finished, he placed it back on the desk and let out a slow breath.
"I'll allow it," he said. "But tread carefully, Hosteen."
Hosteen leaned back in his chair. "You think Charlton is dangerous?"
Jason's jaw tightened. "I think men who have lost power are often the most dangerous of all." He gestured toward the letter. "Six hundred years ago, his house was one of the most powerful in the Riverlands. Four hundred years ago, the Freys stripped them of nearly everything. And now? Now they bow to a man they despise, watching from the shadows as Walder Frey consolidates his rule, while he fucks and drinks like a common drunk." Jason exhaled sharply. "Men like Charlton don't forget the history of their House, especially not if they are reminded of the fact that were it like it used to be it would be much fairer and more dignified or so they think."
Hosteen nodded slowly. He had considered as much. "Then perhaps we have a common enemy."
Jason gave him a hard look. "Or perhaps you're stepping into a fight you don't need."
Hosteen smirked. "I think that decision was made the moment Frey played his hand."
Jason shook his head, pouring himself a cup of wine from a nearby pitcher. "Just be careful. Charlton might hate Frey, but that doesn't mean he's your ally. He'll do what's best for himself, just as Walder does."
Hosteen accepted a cup as Jason handed him one. "And what of you, Jason? What do you think is best?"
Jason raised his cup, the firelight flickering against the deep red of the wine. "For now? Seeing how this plays out."
Hosteen chuckled, clinking his cup against Jason's before taking a long drink. The game was beginning in earnest now, and there was no turning back.
The wind carried the scent of damp earth and distant rain as Hosteen Mudd stood upon the battlements of Hammerford, his gaze fixed upon the road stretching eastward. It had been several days since his letters had been dispatched—one to Walder Frey, the other to Lord Charlton—and though he had received no word from the Twins, he expected nothing less. Walder Frey was not a man to acknowledge accusations, even when unspoken.
The letter from Charlton had arrived that morning, and it now rested upon his desk, the wax seal broken, its contents committed to memory.
To Lord Hosteen Mudd, Lord of Hammerford,
Your letter reached me in due course, and I must say, I find myself most intrigued by your invitation. It is no small thing when men of standing seek discourse rather than discord, and I commend you for your prudence in such uncertain times. The Riverlands have long been a place of shifting tides and uneasy alliances, and wisdom dictates that those who wish to weather the storms ahead must be prepared to understand both their friends and their rivals alike.
It pleases me to accept your invitation. A meeting at Seagard is indeed a prudent choice, for I would not see undue suspicion cast upon either of us, nor any cause for misgivings to arise among our mutual acquaintances. Neutral ground is ever the best foundation upon which to build understanding.
I trust that Lord Mallister will make for a gracious host, and I look forward to discussing these matters with you. There is much to speak of, and I am certain that between men of reason, an accord of some manner can be found. Too often have our lands been stirred by chaos and ambition unchecked. Too often have the actions of a few dictated the suffering of many. Perhaps, in speaking plainly, we may find a course that benefits not just our houses, but the Riverlands as a whole.
I shall ride for Seagard in ten days' time, accompanied only by a small retinue befitting a peaceful gathering. You shall know me by my banners when I arrive at the gates. Until then, Lord Mudd, I bid you good fortune and safe days.
Lord Maynard Charlton
A roll of thunder rumbled in the distance, though the skies above Hammerford remained clear. A storm was coming—but whether it was one of rain or blood, Hosteen could not yet say.